Circus of Horrors
by Dacica Dracones
Summary: It dawned on him, while he was aimlessly wandering around the dark corridors of that damned place, that fate had dealt him an incredibly bad hand. Eddie Gluskin/Waylon Park
1. Silenzio

It dawned on him, while he was aimlessly wandering around the dark corridors of that damned place, that fate had dealt him an incredibly bad hand. Sure, he could have made it so much easier on himself, had he kept his mouth shut, turned a blind eye to everything and moved on with his life, but the matter kept clawing at his conscience; he cursed himself and that place and Jeremy Blaire for the millionth time that day.

Blaire. That motherfucker deserved to burn in hell for an eternity and another one after that. He vaguely wondered just how inhumane one person could become for a business, or for money. And it wasn't just him. The entire Murkoff Corporation was made out of scum like Blaire, from managers to doctors, their dehumanization sentencing the already doomed patients/prisoners, thrown and forgotten inside the asylum by their families, to an even grimmer fate. It was the complete abandonment that the Murkoff Corporation, and, by default, Blaire, counted on. People from the outside didn't care, and those inside didn't dare to "tell stories outside of class", as Blaire put it. He learned that the hard way, his jaw still stiff and most likely wearing a boot shaped bruise.

The dizziness still hadn't gone away, the images that were put in front of him on the projector still floating in front of his eyes, now and then, more and more faded every time but still vivid enough to make him want to outstretch his arm and try to grab at them. He tried rubbing at his eyes, but only managed to distort the image of the sinister hallway even more; any attempt would have been futile anyway, he had realized some time ago that the pictures were not imprinted onto his retina, but onto his brain.

The silence was also becoming unbearable; "it's scarier when nothing happens." He said to himself and then laughed out loud at the silliness. The quietness was incredibly profound, making his ears ring, which was driving him insane. Either this part of the asylum was more secluded; the darkness made it almost impossible for him to know exactly where he was; or, and that particular thought made his hair stand on end, there was no one left alive.

When he first broke out of his cell, the one where Murkoff had tried to force its filthy paws inside his mind, hell seemed to have broken loose throughout the entire asylum, the patients finally releasing their pent-up anger on the staff. Beaten. Ripped to shreds. Waylon had felt an enormous wave of satisfaction wash over him, before he realized he wasn't quite safe either. By an immense luck, if it could be called luck, given the situation, he was dressed as a patient, and, ironically, that saved him, for the moment. If he hadn't been scared out of his mind, he would have grinned to himself; Blaire had somehow done him a favor, keeping him alive.

Later on, though, he was wishing those patients had just cracked open his skull. If the screams for help and the mad ramblings of the patients had been unnerving, this poignant silence was even worse. He wanted to make some sort of noise, to bang his fist against a wall, to talk to himself, to make even the tiniest sound just to make sure he was still alive, and this entire hell wasn't just his imagination.

And then there was the smell. The metallic stench was so deeply impregnated past his nostrils that he was sure he'd still be feeling the nauseating smell for months after he'll get out of there. If he'll ever get out of there. The worst thing was, he was getting used to it; he had thrown up once or twice, but then the smell became a part of the ambiance. So did the mangled bodies and the occasional leg or arm, long separated from their owners.

He tried to convince himself it was all fake, like the ride through the Haunted Mansion that he took with his father when he was a kid. The scenery before him was terrifyingly real, however, and impossible to remain impassive to.

The sound of a voice ripped him out of the thoughts that had been tormenting him for what seemed like hours; he had no idea how long it has been, it could have been only a few minutes. He stopped, holding his breath. There was more than just one voice; he distinguished a female voice, amongst others. They seemed to be coming from somewhere beneath his feet, on a lower floor level. He didn't dare to move, listening carefully and trying to decipher what they were saying. It was very difficult to understand a word, despite him kneeling on the wooden floor and bending until his ear was pressed against the wet surface.

He didn't care if they were friendly or hostile, doctor or patient, they were human and that was all that mattered to him right now.

They were arguing about something; and moving at the same time. He got back to his feet and tried to guess where they were going. He only managed to take two steps; the wooden boards suddenly made a terrifying sound, snapping in the middle and giving way. The water, probably coming from a broken faucet in a bathroom, had been absorbed by the wood until saturation, making it incapable of sustaining the weight of a human male. For a moment, he was worried that his leg would get stuck, but the hole widened considerably, and he crashed through the floor, falling on what appeared to be a bookshelf. Pieces of wood rained down on him and the pain in his leg and ribs made his vision blurry.

Someone shouted something, but his mind was sluggish and, despite his efforts to stay awake, he blacked out.


	2. Bête Noire

He woke up to the sound of wood creaking under bare feet, sound which caused a jolt of electricity to run through his nerves, making him jump to his feet. The sudden movement knocked books and pieces of wood across the floor, which slid away with a scraping sound; the noise made the other man stop pacing. Silence met his ears once again.

Waylon froze. His entire body tensed, shaking slightly with both fear and anticipation; a horrible feeling that somebody was watching him settled in. The man had sensed his presence and went still, listening, both of them waiting for the other to make their move; in Waylon's weary mind, they resembled two feral cats, ready to rip each other to pieces. Jump at each other's throats. Waylon considered attacking first, but his mind deemed the idea insane just a few seconds later. He wouldn't stand a chance. He didn't even know where that thought came from; it was either some sort of survival instinct or that place was starting to get to him.

If anything, the entire asylum was the lurking predator, and he was the defenseless and juicy prey.

He resorted to waiting and trying hard to muffle his shaky breath. He expected the other to grab him and drag him to his inevitable demise any minute now. It made him almost angry that the man seemed to be taking his time, prolonging his state of anxiety. A dull ache in his jaw made him realize he had been clenching his teeth the entire time.

Minutes passed and the darkness remained quiet. Despite not knowing if the man was really gone or just hiding somewhere, ready to pounce, he dared to move. He felt vulnerable, sitting in the middle of that large space in a pile of broken furniture, and he scurried closer to the nearest wall, suddenly becoming aware of the pain in his side.

Each deep intake of air brought a sharp pain to his ribs; he felt them, gingerly, biting his lips to keep any wince or groan from escaping. His fingers brushed against the bone, looking for the dents he was hoping he'd never find. When his wish was granted, he allowed himself to relax just a little; a broken rib would have severely slowed him down, making him an even easier prey than he already was.

Somewhere to his left, a light shone. He stared at the dim flicker for a while, still breathing heavily from both pain and fear. He urged his body to move, but his muscles seemed to have ceased listening to his brain. Now he could register the sound of water dripping, from the hole that he fell through, as well as from other two or three places; the entire ceiling was going to cave in, eventually. The asylum was rotting from the inside.

The gruesome image of himself caught and crushed under debris that had entered his mind was enough to make him move again, and he crawled towards the light like a wingless moth. After about two meters of staggering and holding his side, his path was blocked by a large bookshelf, impossible to move by himself. The gap between the wall and the shelf was small, and only allowed Waylon to squeeze through sideways, with some difficulty. He gritted his teeth at the discomfort created by his bruised ribs; the wood scraped against his bare legs.

He was almost on the other side when the sleeve of his shirt got caught into a nail, and ripped with a loud noise; a book fell from the shelf and hit him in the head, and, despite all his efforts to remain quiet, the sudden blow made him curse under his breath.

Something shifted in front of him. His eyes widened and a throaty shout escaped his mouth when a human head popped up extremely close to him. A horribly disfigured, yet human face. The man's expression mirrored his own: terror, and an ardent desire to remain unnoticed.

"Will you be quiet?" His voice was shaking. His hands were shaking as well, although he was trying to hide it by gripping the wooden shelf tightly. "He'll hear us." Waylon glued himself to the wall behind him, his heart pounding wildly against his ribcage. "The man downstairs. Very bad. Very bad…"

His voice cracked and he disappeared behind the shelf, leaving Waylon to scramble out of the tiny space, tripping and falling over in the process. He gasped and gulped, eyes scanning the darkness for the other man, but he found nothing. His words latched themselves onto his brain. Whoever 'the man downstairs' was, he was clearly bad news. Bad enough to reduce a grown man to a trembling mess. He squeezed his eyes shut until bright colors exploded on the back of the lids; it was best not to think about it. Had he dwelled on all the horrors he'd seen, he would have lost his mind a long time ago.

The light was shining through a hole in the wall, which connected the room Waylon was currently in to a similar one. He slipped inside, jumping slightly at the sight of his own shadow; fear had seeped into his bone marrow. The man's words still raked his brain, against his efforts to push them away.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he heard voices. People talking, three or four of them. A woman's voice. The people from earlier, before he crashed through the floor and into this brand new piece of hell. And like earlier, they were arguing.

"Grow some hair on your pecker, Timmy, then we can talk about girls."

Footsteps. He rushed out of the light and pressed himself against the wall, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

"I hear something I swear." The same voice. His legs felt like cotton, knees knocking together. 'Don't stay in one place', he said to himself. 'Don't let them catch you'. His mind ruled out the possibility of them being friendly, or at least scared out of their minds like the man before, and himself, was. He heard one of them walking with long strides, most likely looking for the source of the noise.

"Could it be that we have a visitor?" Another voice. Just as close to him as the other one was.

"But that's just perfect." And another one.

"He could be our goat." Trying hard to ignore the dull ache in his side that still bothered him, Waylon crouched and crawled under two planks that stuck out of the wall.

"We need a goat." The woman's voice was right next to him, on the other side of a shelf. He held his breath, waiting for her shadow to glide past him.

"You want to give him to Gluskin."

Gluskin. Gluskin. He felt like he'd heard that name before, or was it just his imagination? It wasn't exactly a common name, but he couldn't associate a face with it. It did, however, have a bad sound to it, like a serial killer's name mentioned on television.

"I don't want to get Gluskin's attention. He'll hurt us." There it was. The same fear lingering in his voice. The same as the other man. That Gluskin; the man downstairs. He wondered, how crazed and sadistic a man can be, to make people with so little judgement left fear him so much.

It was different than earlier, though. While the first man tried to stay as far as possible from the source of his distress, these people, or at least some of them, tried to get close. Feed him so he won't eat them instead. Different approaches to the same problem.

"No sense in pulling a mad dog's tail."

Waylon pulled himself up to his feet with great difficulty, his ribs protesting. He stumbled, and suddenly collided with something hard and icy cold, which started to dangle back and forth. He caught a glimpse of the object he struck and, despite himself, he screamed; the hanged man's eyes bulged out of his skull, tongue swollen and sticking out of his mouth. Behind him, hurried footsteps. Glancing back, he saw a single silhouette, a man, holding a cleaver tightly in his hand. The blade gleamed into the dim light threateningly.

"There he is! Get him!"

Without thinking twice, Waylon ran the opposite direction, dashing towards the nearest door. He heard the man, hot on his heels. 'Where are the others?' The fear of being ambushed made him speed up, adrenaline once again erasing all the pain from his body. Crashing through the door and slamming it, he found himself into a long hallway with no windows and pools of blood littering the broken tiles. He stopped to catch his breath and listened. The sound of the man hitting the door with his shoulder made him jump.

The other end of the corridor was engulfed in darkness, but Waylon sprinted towards it anyway; he heard the door break behind him, an amalgam of voices reaching his ears. Another glance back. It was just the man with the cleaver. Realization hit him hard. There were no others. There was no woman, he should have known, there never had been any women in the asylum ever since Murkoff reopened it. The man was sick. Delusional. And madly afraid of someone. The man downstairs. He didn't have much time to dwell upon his discovery, however.

The darkness masked the stairs very well; Waylon stepped on air and his entire body was propelled forward, falling down the steps into the blackness below.


	3. Omen

Air got knocked out of his lungs as he struck the cold and unforgiving ground. He wrapped his arms around his midsection, struggling to bring oxygen back into his system and to blink away the blinding lights that danced in front of his eyes. He was lying on his back, he realized; nausea washed over him, but the only thing his stomach managed to produce was hot acid that burned his throat. He could hear his own gasps and pants; uncontrollable by that point; but the sound was dulled, as if water had clogged his ears.

The pain wasn't just occasional stabs to his ribs anymore; it took over his whole body, hot and searing, fogging his vision and making his ears ring. His head fell, heavy, on the floor and he swallowed several times, trying in vain to tame the burning in his gut. He hadn't realized, until now, how hungry he was, and how much his throat had dried up.

The newfound sensations of hunger and thirst were what drove him to raise up, despite the protests of that small part of his brain which had found the coldness of the wooden boards comforting. Vending machines. He had walked past vending machines so many times, but grabbing something from them had never occurred to him. Set on escaping, and fast, his brain had perceived the packages of food and bottles of water as mere dead weight that would've hindered him in his mad race for an escape. He cursed himself for not thinking ahead; there was nothing he could do now, the machines, as well as the refrigerators in the kitchens were probably empty. The horrific images of dead bodies with their intestines clawed out and bite marks on their arms and necks supported that theory. It was often hunger that turned animals completely savage, and man was no different. Waylon felt his stomach do another somersault and he forced himself to move, to keep his mind busy with something.

He reached the bottom of the stairs, suddenly remembering about his pursuer. The multiple tonalities of his voice rang through his head; it must have been terrible, losing his mind. His reality warping and bending around him, all that he knew and was familiar with shifting and changing and throwing him into a different world in which he had no other choice but to adapt. The thought of himself overcome by madness made him shudder, and he started to recite the multiplication table in his head just to make sure he wasn't losing his grip on this reality; no matter how cruel it had been with him.

He heard nothing from above him; was the man gone? For some reason, he didn't pursue him downstairs. He must have seen him crash to the ground and assumed he was dead.

'I'm gonna keep crashing and crashing until I finally reach Hell.' His mind told him.

Hell. Downstairs. His blood ran cold and he scrambled up the steps, slipping and nearly smashing his nose. The realization had hit him like a sledgehammer in his temple, bringing bile up his gullet again. Another terrified voice echoed through his mind. "The man downstairs. Very bad. Very bad."

Bad. Bad. The word remained stuck, blaring like a broken radio. His outstretched hands met something solid; he pushed against it, losing his breath once again. Someone, no doubt the man with the cleaver, had toppled a rather large piece of furniture, most likely a wardrobe, over the top of the stairs. The huge wooden box got stuck, effectively blocking his path. Waylon could no longer control the trembling of his hands as he pressed them against the wood, praying God and all the Seraphim in heaven that it would move.

It didn't, and another scary thought crossed Waylon's mind. He never heard the wardrobe being pushed down. How long had he stayed there on the floor, blinded and deafened by the unmerciful pain? How long had he been there, on display, for anyone to take? He found himself zoning out while staring at the hard surface that kept him from walking on a higher floor level, and shook his head vigorously, enough to make himself a bit dizzy. Staying there and waiting was not an option; he walked back down the stairs, his eyes barely registering some contours in the darkness.

Sewing machines. He had heard that the asylum had a vocational block, but he had never actually been there. Knowing where he was wasn't helping him that much. He didn't know his way around this part of the building, how far he was from the exit, or if the path to an eventual exit hadn't already been blocked. Some walls had caved in and covered doors and passages that led outside; like the asylum itself was trying very hard to keep them trapped inside. Like cattle in a slaughterhouse. He had, at some point, spent some time staring out a shattered window at the ground three floors below and considering jumping. As delightful as getting out of the building sounded, doing so with his legs broken and no other means of transport was quite problematic. He had then forced himself to walk away from the window and remove the sight of the narrow road that left the main gates and led to safety from his mind. He will find a way out, he had promised himself.

And the more he tried, the deeper he went into the heart of that cursed place, it seemed. He walked blindly, hitting his knees and toes against the tables that held the sewing machines. Somewhere ahead, a lightbulb attached to a long cord dangled left and right from the ceiling, making the shadows dance and stretch.

He caught a human silhouette out of the corner of his left eye and he jumped, ready to make a run for it, but a second glance made him stay in his spot. On a headless mannequin stood a dress, a long dress that was most likely white under the grime and the speckles of blood that had stained it. A long, flowing dress.

A wedding gown, Waylon realized. He took a few steps closer, slowly reaching out to touch the material. Silk? It looked weird, out of place. The stillness of its shadow made Waylon tense; the lightbulb had stopped dangling. What made it move in the first place? Had it been a draft or had someone touched it before, making it swing like a pendulum that ticked the seconds away from his life.

Waylon backed away from the dress; a dirty, corrupted symbol of purity and innocence. How can something so beautiful emanate so much dread? Like someone died wearing it.

"Stop it!" He said harshly, under his breath. First sign of madness, talking to yourself. He rubbed at his temples, and turned his back to the gown; the feelings of paranoia and unsafety made him glance several times over his shoulder, expecting the harmless piece of material to attack him at any moment. He resorted to walking backwards, never taking his eyes off the dress, while his mind kept insisting that he was being ridiculous. He walked like that until he could no longer see it, but the image remained burned onto his retina, refusing to go away.

He was back in the darkness, but it felt safer, comforting even. He didn't know what to make of that dress. What kind of person would spent so much time making it; clearly the asylum did not have such a piece of clothing lying around; just to leave it to decay. Or maybe use it for a less than holy, twisted version of its real purpose. He found himself lingering and scolded himself for almost giving up on moving forward, in fear of what awaited him there. But he had to get out, and cowering in a corner wasn't going to help him much.

The sewing machines were gone, replaced by sturdy shelves. He couldn't have already gotten out of the vocation block; in a moment of panic, he thought he had walked back to where he fell down the stairs. Wandering around a place for too long greatly increased the chances of running into someone he didn't want to.

He spotted a double door just two meters ahead of him. The glass was long gone and it had been replaced by chain wire mesh, bent slightly towards him. Somebody had leaned into it from the other side. To do what? Under what circumstances? Consumed by terror, trying to break it and escape. Or chasing after someone else, desperately trying to catch them and…

Stop. Stop it. He scratched vigorously at his head, imploring it to stop thinking. Lucidity had become his worst enemy. He'd have been better off if he had lost his mind. Lost contact with all that surrounded him.

Taking a deep breath, he approached the door. Someone went through the trouble of installing the net after the glass had been broken, yet nothing blocked the door from the other side. Closing his eyes and wrapping his hand around the doorknob, he pushed. It didn't budge, not even a millimeter. He pushed again and again, hearing the lock rattle but not giving in. Sighing, he opened his eyes, and jumped violently at the sight in front of him.

First thing he saw was his eyes, the blueness contrasting with the blood that caked his face; awfully scarred, like worms had eaten away at it. And then, the suit. Suit made out of patches of different materials sewn together quite well. And then, the man's grin. Wide and lewd. Waylon scrambled away from the net when his bloodstained fingers wrapped around it, trying to reach him. The wire bent further and Waylon felt his stomach churn again. He watched as the man made a show out of licking his lips and pressing closer to the net; Waylon begged divinity that it won't break.

"Darling!"


	4. Deranged

**I'm really sorry for the delay, I had moved to Bucharest last week and I hadn't been able to hear myself think ever since.**

* * *

With those piercing blue eyes boring holes into his skull, Waylon found himself simply frozen, unable to react. The term of endearment had reached his ears but failed to get through his cortex; the chain link mesh let out a quiet moan, bending under the man's weight. His fingers gripped it tightly; the nails were dirty, copper with dried blood and Waylon noticed for the first time that he wore some sort of fingerless gloves and that his bare wrists and the white sleeves that covered his forearms were splattered with the same rust colored liquid.

Suddenly, the net was freed from his clutch and he turned right, disappearing from Waylon's sight. His absence was what made him snap out of his state of reverie and frantically scan the small fraction of the room that was visible behind the door; the same feeling he'd have losing track of a fat, ugly spider in his house, amplified a million times. Where is he? Where is he? He hoped there was no way the man could reach him, that the heavens have finally heard his prayers, but at the same time he knew it was all in vain. He was far too deep into the fiery pits of hell for heaven to hear him.

To his right, there was a wall, and the only door was blocked by a large table wearing a dark stain in the middle; Waylon could see it through the foggy, but somehow still intact glass. He could break it; he bit his lip, looking for some sort of tool he could use to do so; and crawl across the dirty surface into the corridor behind it. It would make noise, though. Noise that could lead the man straight to him. The silence around him began pressing more and more insistently upon his temples, and he suddenly became aware that he was breathing too loudly.

He had to go back to where he came from, back to the sewing machines. Back to the wedding dress. He swallowed around the lump in his throat, walking carefully along the wall like a frightened mouse. Something gave off a green and very faint shimmer, but he couldn't see what. Had that light been there before, he couldn't remember. His entire journey through the asylum was blurring, all that he had seen or heard or felt melting together; once in a while he remembered something vivid, and usually unsettling. He remembered the hanged man. He remembered a guard standing in a chair, still clutching the gun in his stiff hand, on the wall behind him a brilliant red splatter.

Suicide seemed like a rational solution now. He shook his head, trying to drive away the thought of taking one of those sharp wooden splinters from the battered shelves and plunging it into his stomach. He couldn't. He had to get out. Had to get back to his wife and children. The possibility of seeing them again was all he's got, and he clung to it like a drowning man clings to his lifering.

The green light extinguished, his heart jumping in his throat again. His first instinct was to crouch on the floor, flattening his back against the cold brick. Heavy footsteps echoed and regret started to flood him; why didn't he just break the glass and make a run for it? A split-second decision was going to seal his fate. A split second, that's all the time he was given to make a decision that will either kill him, then or there, or just postpone his demise until God knows when; as much as he hated admitting it, the chance of walking out of that place was getting slimmer with every second, every minute that flew by. The thought of never seeing his family again gutted him; anxiety made him wring his hands. Skin rubbing against skin was all he could hear now, and the footsteps were gone. Had they even been real?

He didn't dare look, and his breath was getting shakier and shakier; the horrible prospect of not being able to trust his senses was terrifying him. He would no longer know what was real and what was not, he would jump at the sight of his own shadow and hide from things that were not really there. He's seen men ripped in half, and yet madness was what he feared the most. Becoming one of them. The cannibal in the kitchens, who had tried to cook him alive because he was starving, the nose-less giant that ripped heads off to 'establish order'. They broke. Irreparably. Their fate was grimmer to Waylon than that of those who died. Most of them deserved it. Doctors, guards. They did die horribly. Gutted, drained of blood, head bashed in, it was awful indeed, but not as awful as snapping, and hurting people who had never laid a hand on you for a mere fixation of your unstable mind. They'd never fully comprehend the damage they were causing; they survived, but at what cost?

The real victims; it wasn't those corpses still wearing tattered doctor outfits. And how will it affect him? Will it reduce him to a blabbering, shivering mess ignored by others, or turn him into a savage? Will he slice a corpse and eat it, when he will no longer be able to withstand his hunger? Will he slice a man's throat just for some new-found pleasure of seeing blood trickle?

Or was he thinking too far ahead? Maybe he won't live to see himself lose it.

Loud footsteps made him jump violently.

"Did I frighten you? I'm awfully sorry, I didn't mean to." His blood ran cold, the voice was dangerously close to him. He pressed himself further into the wall; his mind was empty. No more praying. If he was to die, then so be it. He closed his eyes.

'Just get this over with.' For a moment, nothing happened. But then a large hand grabbed the front of his shirt and hauled him up to his feet. The man was taller than him, shoulders broad and arms thick; Waylon felt his own shoulders sag and head drop, trying to make himself as small as possible in front of him. He brought his arms in front of his chest, in a weak attempt to protect himself. The man's bloodstained hands wrapped around his wrists tenderly; bile threatened to choke him.

"It's okay. Let me see you." His voice was soft, almost comforting. His right hand left his wrist, and two fingers gripped his chin, pushing his head up. Half of his face was mangled, one blue eye threatening to spill out of its socket. He saw the bow tie at his neck briefly. Another matter was wrecking his brain, though.

Why did the man look familiar?


	5. Presque Vu

The look of recognition that was surely imprinted onto his face was mirroring on the man's own deteriorated one; his grin widened slightly, his thumb moving from his chin to swipe across his lower lip gently. A shudder ran down Waylon's spine; he fought hard with the urge to empty to stomach again, right there.

"I've seen you before." The man's voice was velvet to his ears, and it made him cringe and shrink even more. God, how he wished he could just disappear. "I'm glad I get to see you again." His body moved closer, trapping him against the wall; the man's skin was too warm, radiating heat and contrasting with the cold wall that stuck to Waylon's back. It was pleasant, mind-numbing; until the man's stale breath hit the shell of his ear and made him jump.

"I'm glad I get to touch you." The sentence that was so softly whispered into his ear kicked his brain back to life and in a split second he pushed the man off him with a strength he never knew he had. It took the patient by surprise as well, as he lost his footing and nearly crashed into the shelf behind him.

"You whore!" he heard behind him as he ran in no particular direction, barely dodging the sewing machines. He had to get away, at any cost. This man was so different from the savage killers he'd seen so far; his mere presence was beyond frightening, he made his blood freeze inside his veins. He tripped and fell flat on his stomach; a howl of pain ripped out of his body as his ribs throbbed violently, but he couldn't afford to stop now. He had lost track of the man again and he had looked over his shoulder in the last two minutes more than he had in his entire life.

At some point, his lungs gave out and he grabbed the edge of a table to keep himself from collapsing. The man's words raked him brain, making his skin crawl in the most unpleasant way possible. He knew him, he'd seen him before, but where? Under what circumstances?

He had rarely, almost never, seen patients when he was working for Murkoff; he was merely a software engineer, hired to make sure the company's high performance computers ran nice and smooth. The favorite dream of any computer geek. Yet, as months passed, he had started to notice the strange machinery and ridiculously high amount of security forces stationed inside the asylum. And then, he started seeing glimpses of kicking and thrashing patients being restrained, and hearing their screams about the unspeakable things being done to them. It had irked him; curious people die early, this is how they say where he came from.

God, why didn't he just mind his own business and find another way to get out of the asylum and never return. Sure, Blaire would've gone after him, to make sure he didn't talk, but at least he could have run away. Take his family and leave the country, move across the ocean. Who would have thought, his dream job slowly steering him into a full blown nightmare, a hell which had broken loose the minute he thought it would be a good idea to start chattering right under Blaire's nose. He sincerely hoped Blaire was dead, as horrible as that might have sounded.

As the memories started to refresh inside his mind, his eyes widened. He knew where he's seen the man. He knew him, he remembered very well now, how could he have possibly forgotten? He's seen the desperation on his face, seen him hit the glass with his fists, trying in vain to break it, he's heard him beg to be rescued. He's seen him strapped to the machine, the latex tubes making his fair skin turn a bright red. He's heard about him, seen his name on the screen and on papers.

Eddie Gluskin, tortured and killed more than a dozen women, crimes which the psychiatrists assigned to his case linked to a more than troubled childhood. He's heard the sound of his voice before, and he could hear it now, over and over again in his head.

"_Help me! They're gonna rape me."_

They're gonna rape me. Rape. Rape. A large hand seized his forearm and yanked him harshly, and pain exploded in his head as his nose was shattered by a fist to his face. He staggered, and fell into the sturdy body in front of him; two arms wrapped around his chest, supporting him and cutting off his breath at the same time.

"If you think you can get away from me, you are sadly mistaken." His fingers wiped some of the blood off Waylon's face, smearing the rest on his cheek; he coughed, spluttering and barely managing to keep the contents of his stomach inside. He couldn't feel most of his face and his side still throbbed from the fall; his head was raised forcefully and the man stared down at him with the same unnerving grin as before.

"You are beautiful." Waylon's gut wrenched; everything was wrong about this man, from his suit to his calm voice and careful words. They didn't fit with his intimidating stature, with the predatory look in his cold eyes. Was that how he lured them, his victims? With a nice suit and even nicer words? A handsome face and some tender gestures? He had never seen their bodies, but he could see himself among them, naked, limbs twisted at impossible angles and his throat slashed ear to ear.

The most dangerous criminals were always insanely charming.

"Just let me take care of you." He was running his large hands up and down his bare arms and his skin tingled at the contact. His nose must have already started to swell and he wanted to raise his hand and feel it, but he was afraid to move. He breathed hard through his mouth.

"Why would you want to run away? We will be perfect together." The man; Eddie, he recalled; was too close, breath ghosting over the skin of his neck; he gulped, his thoughts flying to his wife, and how her soft and plump lips would tickle the same sensitive patch of skin. Much to his shame, the lower pits of his abdomen filled with heat. He hasn't seen her in so long; he missed her too much.

"I'm so sorry." He whispered, with the image of Lisa still dancing in front of him.

The man pressed a chaste kiss to his clavicle.

"Oh, you will be."

* * *

**You know, I've had this realization that, if Eddie is allergic to latex, he can't wear a condom, right? xD**

**edit: I was so absorbed with writing the story I didn't feel a 5.8 earthquake on 6th floor, wtf?! My parents called to ask if I was okay and I was like "why, what happened?" :))**


	6. Eve

He was choking.

His windpipe refused to bring air to his lungs anymore and it itched and burned and made him squirm against the large body that kept him captive. His arms engulfed him, smothering him even further; the warmth that the man was emanating was scorching his skin, but his bones were freezing cold and he started shivering uncontrollably. Despite himself, he gripped the man's vest, in an effort to steady himself.

Eddie pressed him harder against his chest; the body was soft, almost delicate, almost feminine. Almost.

When he ran a hand down his back, in a comforting, so he thought, gesture, Waylon let go of his clothes, thrashing into his embrace but finding it impossible to break. A 'shhh!' was whispered into his ear, to calm him down, but it sounded more like the snarl of a horrid monster to Waylon, ready to sink its teeth into his flesh and rip him apart. The steel grip refused to falter and he finally gave up, and slumped against the man. His lips glued to his forehead, and Waylon remembered how his father would do the same, some time ago. And how he used to do the same with his child, and how he probably will never do it again.

Tears threatened to spill out of his eye sockets; he looked up, into Eddie's damaged orbs, as if daring him: 'come on, do your worst.' The man's fingers brushed against his nose and he flinched at the sudden pain; he had forgotten that it was broken, and now that he had been reminded, the ache persisted.

"Don't cry, darling." How could he have such a beautiful voice, even with the lisp that slightly contorted his speech, caused by the horrifying injuries that had mangled his face. If anybody needed any more proof that Murkoff was scum, there it was. The way those bodies had been mutilated by that damn program had made Waylon's skin crawl. Worst of all, he'd been part of it, at some point and to some extent. He tried, however, to kick that thought away from his mind; guilt was the last thing he needed to feel now. And then there was Lisa. What would his beloved Lisa think if she found out that he participated in that circus that created so many monsters and dead bodies? She would be so disappointed.

Eddie's hand wrapped around his wrist, fingers digging into his meat deep enough to drag him out of the safety of his own mind, and back into the harsh reality. He was trapped, and as good as dead; he was going to die, that was certain, and he was strangely fine with it. What uneased him was what was going to happen to him from that point to the moment of his death.

He realized Eddie was actually dragging him along with him; he tried jerking his wrist out of his clutch and failed. He was severly weakened, his arms still shook slightly and his knees barely sustained his weight; the lack of food and water was taking its toll on him, though Waylon was sure he wouldn't have been able to fight Eddie even if he was well fed and healthy. This state of helplessness was infuriating him; he was torn between giving up for good, thus quickening his inevitable end, or fighting back, and risking to make Eddie hurt him even more than he already intended to.

Eddie had no reason not to want to rip him into little pieces, and sew him back together only to tear him up again. Eddie had seen him on the other side of the bulletproof glass that day; to him, Waylon was one of them, one of those persons that had so mercilessly carved into his old, childhood wounds, squeezing as much blood out of them as they could. How could he possibly explain to him that he didn't know, that he didn't mean to? Even to his own head it sounded ridiculous. The only consolation he had was that he was already damaged beyond repair; he couldn't have been helped. There was nothing he could have done for him, nothing would have fixed him. Nothing would have fixed any of them, but that didn't make it any less sickening.

He wasn't paying attention to where Eddie was taking him; he walked along with his eyes fixed on the patch of white skin that was showing right above the man's gloves. He was humming an old tune and Waylon felt a horrible sense of dread spread through his stomach and chest. When Eddie stopped he nearly crashed into his back, yelping pathetically; he yanked him forward, and the sight struck him hard.

The dress stared back at him, threateningly; the instinct to run got the better of him, but two strong arms didn't allow him to get away. He stood there petrified as Eddie's chest glued itself to his back. He could feel him breathe, the rhythm slow compared to the pounding of his own heart against his ribcage. For a moment, he thought that the organ would fail; if only it would've ended that quick. One of Eddie's hands was in his hair, stroking the back of his head with long strides. He must have lost his mind, because he felt his tense muscles start to relax.

" I want a family, a legacy. " He spoke slowly, almost fondly. Goosebumps erupted on Waylon's bare arms; the man must have noticed and placed his hands around them, rubbing up and down as if to warm him up. "I want to marry a nice girl and settle down, be the father I never had. " Something didn't fit, why was he telling him all this? Eddie Gluskin had killed women before he was arrested and thrown unceremoniously into the asylum, since he seemed to have no family to request anything else; either that or they just didn't care what happened to him. The latter was most likely, since he had a history with child abuse. Sexual abuse at the hands of his father and uncle; they wrecked him, ruined his perspective on family, and women. There were whispers that the murders were vicious, the bodies sliced up into pieces and almost unrecognizable. Wounds made in blind fury, the experts had concluded; Eddie had a fixation with women, so horrifying that it made everyone wonder what exactly they had done to him; he had refused to talk, except for the times when he had felt threatened and scared and kept yelling out one single word. Rape.

Eddie felt him tense up again and grabbed his shoulders, resting his chin on the top of Waylon's head. But if Eddie killed women, what would he do now, in here, where there were no women. " Just a few adjustments, and you'll be perfect. " His hands left his shoulders and ghosted over his hips before sinking just below the bones; the scream that escaped Waylon's lips left his throat raw and sore. The blood streak that stained the front of the dress suddenly made sense; a misogynistic murderer, trapped inside an all male asylum; he didn't just seek his victims. He made them.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" He continued to talk as if nothing happened; his eyes looked at the dress almost lovingly. "It will be yours. I've only used it once before, I thought she was special but she disappointed me." The thrashing resumed, but Eddie refused to let go. He could feel himself crumbling, his mind trying to shut itself down. The terror that took over his entire system made babble words without meaning; he understood now why they all whispered Eddie's name in fear, why they looked over their shoulders. This man was a monster; worst of all, he wasn't born one, he was made one. He felt completely disgusted.

"You won't disappoint me, will you?" He stilled. For a moment, it was quiet. And then something hit the back of his head and turned his world pitch black.


	7. Pandora's Box

A bloodcurdling scream awoke him from the forced slumber he'd been put into; he jumped, and winced at the dull ache in his bones, and the soreness of his muscles. He was sitting, his knees brought up to his chin and his back leaned against something cold. Metal. A small space that didn't even allow him to stretch his arms; panic started to overwhelm him as his vision became less and less blurry. He pressed his palm against the metal surface and, against better judgement, he tapped twice, hearing it resound. Behind the barrier there were chains rattling, and the sounds of someone thrashing desperately, gasping for air and crying out for help. His throat felt tight.

Help wasn't coming; the screams were scratching at his eardrums, tears starting to cloud his vision. A beam of light pierced the blackness somewhere above his head; he struggled to raise to his feet, his tired joints protesting loudly and his shoulders bumping into the walls. Horizontal strips of metal, bent and some broken allowed him to see outside of his cage; he was in a locker, he realized. He's hid inside them a few times before, while clamping a hand tightly over his mouth and nose so he won't whimper in fear of what awaited him behind the doors. The safety they had brought him was long gone; he's never felt so trapped before.

The light blinded him for a split second, forcing him to bring a hand to his eyes and shield them. Once they adjusted to the sudden change, his blood ran cold; the man tied to the large table was awfully familiar, despite the fact that he's only seen his face once, and only for a few seconds. He was the one that had warned him, about this man downstairs, and Waylon had then lost him in the darkness and thought he'd never seen him again. His horrified expression was burned into his memory; guess you can't run away from what you fear most.

The chains wrapped around his arms had scrubbed his skin raw, small droplets of the vital liquid splashing the wood he was laying onto. The rapid movements of his chest showed that he was hyperventilating; he was in the middle of a panic attack, and watching him made Waylon sick to his stomach. He knew what was coming; the man knew as well. He was next. Waylon was next; his hands started trembling uncontrollably and he retched, but nothing came out, not even bile. He was completely empty, drained. Nothing left inside him.

Gluing his forehead to the cold metal calmed the feverish sensation that had overwhelmed him; he pushed his entire, weakened body into the door, but it wouldn't budge. He didn't expect it to, it was just some reaction that his body had, led by that tiny piece of his brain that believed he still had a chance to escape. Hope may have yet to leave him, but now Waylon just urged her to die already. The images of him back to his wife that she was painting for him were only making him feel worse; it will never happen. He will die there, on that man's table. Hot tears fell freely down his cheeks and he hit the door harder, only stopping when the light was blocked by a large body.

"Don't think that I have forgotten about you, my darling." Those azure eyes bore holes into his skull; he felt like a piece of meat under their glare. He was just a piece of meat for Eddie after all, one he could carve into to his own taste. "Please forgive my behavior, you know how a man gets when he wants to know a woman." he could hear him drum his fingers on the metal door. It sounded like the thunder he was so scared of when he was a child. "I just couldn't let you roam free, it's too dangerous around here, for such a delicate and fragile person like you." His silky tone was anything but comforting; like a spider would talk to a fly tangled into its web. His hand covered the slot in the door, sliding south slowly. It lingered there, almost affectionately. "I am deeply sorry if this makes you a bit claustrophobic, I didn't want to tie you up." his voice lowered to a whisper that Waylon almost missed. "I didn't want to leave any marks on that perfectly smooth skin of yours."

He crumbled, sobbing and begging, but they fell on deaf ears. That must have been the first time he talked in hours. Eddie glanced behind him, at the man that was bound on the table. "No need to be jealous, he is just warm up, a little practice before I take care of you." He turned to the man, and for the first time Waylon noticed the large knife he was gripping. Another thing that he had missed was that the man was naked. He watched, mesmerized, as Eddie caught the man's knees in his large hands, forcefully parting them. He knew what was coming, yet he couldn't stop looking; his eyes continued to be fixated on the gleaming blade of the knife that Eddie now held raised.

The scream somehow reached his ears before the knife struck home, sinking in between the man's legs. Waylon jumped, biting the inside of his cheek until blood filled his mouth. Eddie's hand twisted and stabbed deeper; the noise was unbearable, Waylon clamping his hands over his ears, trying in vain to drown the sounds of the man's agony. A piece of flesh fell down with a wet sound, a small stream of blood leaving the man's body. Waylon crouched back down on the floor of the locker, covering his mouth when he realized what that piece of flesh was.

All of his thoughts seemed to have left his mind. There was no past, there was definitely no future. Just that dreaded moment when he will find himself tied up there, instead of that man. He was next, his mind kept reminding him, blaring on like a broken record. There was no way someone could survive that horrible mutilation. Death was inevitable. He only hoped that it would be fast, although bleeding out didn't sound like such a quick way to die.

He raised back up to feet, his legs shaking terribly. He had to see what was happening. He realized he had been tuning the sounds out; Eddie was talking to his victim like a doctor would talk to his patient. His words sickened him, spoken so nonchalantly as he cut and sliced and tore skin and meat apart.

"Just don't give up on me, darling." Waylon's clothes were drenched in cold sweat, his body shivering. No attempt to calm himself seemed to work; he choked on the air he was breathing deep in his chest, and his own fingers felt like sandpaper against his temples. He winced everytime Eddie made a new cut, dragging his hand over the same body part that he had damaged, just to make sure he was still whole. At least for now.

Eddie dragged his knife down the man's chest, towards his stomach. The deep line didn't leak blood; Waylon looked horrified at the crimson lake on the floor, that Eddie was, probably knowingly, standing into. His skin was sickly pale and littered with cuts that remained open and clean.

Suddenly, everything was quiet. Waylon could hear to own shaky breath as he stared dumbfounded at the man, waiting for him to move. To make a sound. His eyes widened until they started to burn, his mouth was open but no sound came out.

He was gone. And that could only mean one thing. He jumped when Eddie impaled the knife into the lifeless body furiously. "You gave up on me. You gave up on love." he sounded hurt. He pulled the knife out and Waylon saw the blade clean; no drop of blood left inside that man. That's what awaited him. The still body was unceremoniously dumped on the floor with a thump, and Eddie turned towards the locker.

"It doesn't matter." Waylon slid down the metal wall, hugging his knee closer to his chest. He continuously shook his head like a madman. "I have you now."

The lock on the door clicked.

* * *

**I am almost done with exams people! Can't wait, I haven't seen outside in a while :)) also, the next chapter might be the last one. Hope you won't hate me too much for what I have in store for poor Waylon.. **

**Please let me know what you think. :)**


	8. Damocles

His shaky breath seemed ridiculously loud now, as he waited for the metal door to finally open and expose him completely to the insane man outside. Ten minutes ago it was a cage, now it was the only thing shielding him from the monster with a carving knife that awaited him. Eddie was taking his time, enjoying the slow torture he was putting him through; Waylon cringed at the sick, wet sound and he imagined Eddie running his tongue over his top lip, softly, almost sensually.

"Come out, now!" he called out, playfully, sending shivers down Waylon's spine and making him press himself into the cold metal behind him. He realized tears were threatening to fall down his cheeks as his vision became warped; he rose his hand to wipe them away and regretted instantly, as his eyes began to sting when he rubbed his dirty fingers into them.

The hinges creaked, and Waylon jumped violently, his breath caught in his throat. This is it, his mind repeated, over and over and over again. He was going to die. _I am going to die._ He remembered how, a few days before his grandfather had passed away, he had told him how he wasn't afraid of death, and neither should he, how death was something natural that he had to embrace, for it didn't lie within his power to stop it.

He remembered, while seeing him unmoving and cold in his coffin, that he wished he could've stopped it. He wished that he could stop it now, when the door was opening wider and wider, revealing an amused and dangerous grin.

"There you are!" A hand tangled itself in his hair and pulled harshly, yanking him out of the closet. A few strands were ripped out of their roots and remained glued to Eddie's gloved hand after he had let go; he picked them and tossed them into the puddle of blood at his feet, smiling. Waylon watched them fall and fall and soak up and he felt sick to his stomach, he felt his knees go weak and his shoulders slump. He was tired, powerless. He was already dead, he just didn't know it yet.

Tears ran down his cheek leaving a wet and relatively clean streak on his dusty skin; his eye hadn't stopped stinging and it forced Waylon to close it, significantly narrowing his vision. When he was little, he was afraid of the dark; his mother had once told him, there's nothing there in the dark that can hurt you, and he believed her. But later he realised it wasn't the things he thought were in the dark that terrified him. It was the dark itself, the veil wrapped around his eyes that made him lose contact with the world around him. When he couldn't see, he felt vulnerable.

Eddie's hand had found its way up to his face, wiping with his thumb at the tears that kept falling and falling; Waylon winced, struggling to keep both his eyes open.

"It's alright." He whispered, soothingly. "You can close your eyes, I'm here. I will not let anything harm you." And his hand covered his eyes. Left in the darkness that he once hated so much, Waylon's breath sped up; jerking his head left and right didn't help him shake Eddie's palm off. "Shhh." He heard, and he realised he had been whimpering. He had moved behind him; his lips touched the curve of his neck, where it met his shoulder, and trailed up the tall column until it met hair. A chaste kiss was pressed to the top of his head.

The hand was removed, but his eyes stung terribly; a warm chest was pressed gently into his back and Eddie's hands settled on his shoulders, squeezing slightly and steering him to the left. The man nudged him forward; he walked blindly, following Eddie's lead like a dog follows its master.

Only it was fear, and not faith, that made him obey; he couldn't see what was happening around him, and was terrified that, if he didn't do what he was told, Eddie would get mad and just stab him, then and there. He wanted to live and long as possible; _I'm sorry, grandpa, I am afraid. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Lisa. Lisa.._

His thighs hit something and he stopped, dead in his tracks. Eddie turned him around gently and pressed down on his shoulders. The table, Waylon remembered, and a shiver ran down his spine.

"No," Waylon protested weakly, pushing back against Eddie's hands; fingers sank into his arms, keeping him in place. "Shhh." The man's steel grip left him no room to move. "It's alright." He felt his touch at the collar of his shirt; he tugged it down, kneeling in front of him and kissing the skin over his collarbone.

"You have amazing bone structure." He murmured. Waylon swallowed around the lump in his throat; Eddie's hands moved down his sides, brushing softly against his body. They caught the hem of the shirt, and started pulling it up.

Waylon gasped as cold air hit the bare skin of his waist, goosebump erupting all over; his hands flew, out of instinct, to pull the shirt back on. The next second, his head was jerked to the side by a vicious slap that echoed inside the large room, the pain in his broken nose exploding once more; nausea made his head spin and red liquid filled his mouth. Eddie's hand cradled the cheek he had struck; Waylon's skin was burning up against his own.

"Why?" Waylon almost missed the soft whisper. Almost wished he had. "Why do you make me hurt you?" His lips ghosted over his forehead, his breath caressing it. "I just want us to be happy together." His voice grew louder, triggering alarm bells in Waylon's tired mind; five seconds too late, however. The punch brought him down to the ground, at Eddie's feet, knocking the wind out of him.

"Is that you much to ask, you whore?!" He roared, grabbing the back of his shirt and ripping it like a piece of paper; the tear of fabric reminded Waylon too much of the sound of bones breaking. The nausea melted off into a pleasant numbness, but not for long. Eddie's arms were around him and it was so cold out there, and Eddie was so warm and God, he was losing it. He clung to him when he pulled him back to his feet; don't make him mad, the small part of his brain that still maintained its clarity told him. Don't give him reasons to be mad at you. Do as he says, for your own good.

For your own good. How ridiculous it sounded now.

"Do anything like that again," the tone was threatening, so was the grip on his upper arms, "and you will regret it."

He swallowed the whimper of fear and urged himself not to move when he felt Eddie pull at the waistband of his pants.

* * *

**Well, sorry for keeping you waiting for so long. This semester has been quite hectic for me :D Also, I'm not ending it here, like I said last time. I enjoy torturing Waylon way too much xD**

**As a side note, please, just keep your fingers crossed for me for my Topography exam tomorrow, which I'm absolutely, positively, double definitely going to fail xD. Thank you! :3**


	9. Tyrant

**Okay, so, I don't know what kind of good luck spells you guys did, but I passed the exam :)**

Eddie's calloused fingers dipped under the elastic band that kept the dirty, tattered bottoms of his patient outfit up around his bony hips. The light touch tickled him and he inhaled sharply; his ribcage protested, sending a blunt surge of pain through his abused central nervous system. Sheer terror kept him still as Eddie's grin widened and his strong hands brought Waylon closer to his body by his hips.

"I can't wait to tear into you." The implications turned Waylon's gut upside down; he stared at the ground and at the tips of Eddie's dress shoes, trying in vain to tune out the other man. An impossible task; the world seemed to have narrowed down. The asylum was all that remained now, the filthy table, the bloodless corpse of that unfortunate soul , his own shaking and half-crazed mess, and him. Eddie.

"Fill you up." One of his hands left his hip and forced him to look up, at his face; the sight of allergy eaten flesh made Waylon's head spin. "You don't have to be alone anymore." Eddie's lips found his jaw, trailing small pecks to the corner of Waylon's lips. Their mouths melted together, and Waylon fought as hard as he could with the strong urge to retch. A fistful of his hair kept him from moving away and a few salty tears dripped down; he refused access to the tongue that lapped at his bottom lip, at least at first. Eddie yanked painfully at his hair, and Waylon's mouth opened in a gasp of discomfort.

Startled by the sudden invasion, his alarmed brain twitched his arms back to life; he put his palms flat on Eddie's chest, pushing, gently and then more and more insistently, until he shoved Eddie off him. His lips were glistening in the faint light; just as Waylon thought he couldn't see anything more sickening, couldn't feel any more violated, this man came and proved him wrong. Showed him a whole new dimension of twisted.

Pushed away from Waylon, Eddie scanned his face with an unreadable expression. "What did I just tell you?" under the thin layer of calmness in his voice laid hot, blind anger. Just a matter of time until he exploded violently and took Waylon down with him. He didn't even see him pounce just a few seconds later, digging his fingers into his trachea.

He was thrown on the table in a puddle of half congealed blood that painted his back a rusty, ill smelling red. His pants slid down his legs and were flung across the room, leaving him with only his underwear as cover. Waylon realized he had been sinking his teeth into his bottom lip when copper filled his mouth.

Eddie's anger seemed to have lost its intensity; he didn't want to rush whatever he had in store for him, despite him clearly stating his eagerness. The words still wrecked havoc in Waylon's mind; his legs were bent at his knees as he laid on the table, the bulb above his head hurting his eyes. He felt Eddie grab his calf and squeeze it gently, almost lovingly. He had decided a long time ago that this Eddie was more than ten times scarier than furious Eddie. Throwing punches. Yelling. That Eddie didn't whisper disturbing words in his ear. Didn't rip his clothes off. Didn't force himself on him.

A kiss was pressed to his knee, and Waylon scared himself with how close he was to reacting and hitting the man in his mouth, very possibly knocking a tooth or two out. As much as he would have enjoyed hurting the other man, making him feel a tiny little fraction of the pain he was inflicting on others, that would have sealed his fate. Killed him on the spot. He bit at his lip again, unconsciously, and clenched his muscles; it tempted him to kick out his legs. Maybe Eddie will lose his patience. Maybe he will stab him and let him bleed out. Maybe he will die quicker than being chopped in a grotesque imitation of a surgery.

He squirmed, his thoughts forgotten, when Eddie trailed one finger up the inside of his bare thigh. He was dangerously close to his core now; "Please, stop!" it came out weak and pathetic and Eddie did nothing to hide his amusement.

"You know I will not stop." Eddie's voice was soft; his anger had evaporated, swinging brusquely to the loving, or so he thought, visage. He grabbed one of his arms and stretched it out like he was crucified; Waylon felt the rough texture of the rope snake around his wrist and bite into the skin. His other arm shot out to defend himself, but froze in midair when Eddie slammed his fist into the table, right next to his head, delivering the message quickly and efficiently: 'That's the only warning you get.'

He tested the rope discreetly, it was tight, impossible to unknot or break; his only chance was to yank harshly at the thick string, and hope than the short pole it was tied to snapped. Eddie trapped his other wrist, and wrapped the rope tighter than first. It choke his veins like a lasso, but he didn't dare to squirm. Eddie stepped back to admire his work.

Waylon didn't know when he had started to cry, but now he was fully aware of the wet trails that went down to his ears. The man was watching him ravenously; "You look so beautiful." He was sobbing by now, despair and terror shoving him over the edge. He was starting to lose feeling in his left hand, and when he tried to clench his fists he found out he couldn't.

Eddie watched him cry with morbid fascination, drinking in every pained and scared sound that came out of his bride. His bride. His.

"Mine." He growled, and lunged for the squirming body sprawled out at his mercy.

**I wanna be a cat. They headbutt things they love.**


	10. Morpheus

The man's smell was making his head spin as he struggled to breathe through the ugly sobs that shook his entire frame; Pandora's box had caught fire and burned like a rat with his hope still inside. Lisa's face had burned itself on the back of his brain and looked at him with wet eyes; he wished he had kissed her goodbye that morning.

He'd fucked up. Of course, he hadn't gotten a clear warning of what he was getting into; hell, probably none of them really knew until they were in too deep to get out and were too scared, or equally as heartless as the Murkoff executives, to back down. Still, he should've had suspected something. The amount of money was huge; he remembered thinking he had hit the jackpot. He remembered Lisa's worried face. He wished he had listened to her.

"I fucked up, Lisa. I fucked up, I'm so sorry.." the words came out jumbled together and under his breath. Above him, Eddie's eyes held a trace of sympathy.

"Calm down, darling." The voice gained an edge Waylon hadn't heard before. "I know. We all have our demons."

He didn't expect that; the statement froze the tears on his cheeks. It seemed almost surreal to assume that there was a single shred of humanity left inside this man, after all the terrible things that he'd been put through, ever since he was a child. But why didn't he have the right to be angry? What didn't kill Eddie didn't make him any stronger; it wrecked him, didn't give him any chance of ever functioning in a normal society. Who would ever wish for that? For a brief second, Waylon felt sorry for him.

"See, we are alike, you and me." the gloved hand ran up and down his bare forearm and the skin broke into millions of almost painful goosebumps. He hated even thinking about it, but he was right, to an extent. They were both victims, both to Murkoff, and family, in Eddie's case. Sick minds that unfortunately had power over them chose their fates for them, completely indifferent to the disastrous consequences their reckless, evil actions would have. "The only difference is you had your chance to walk away."

He was right. He was right and his chest tightened painfully, the urge to cry and yell out in frustration becoming almost impossible to resist. He held his breath for as long as his lungs allowed him to, making a pact with himself not to let any sound out, not to let this man know just how scared and distraught he was making him. This could have been avoided. He could have turned down the offer. God, how he wished he could turn back time.

"But I'm glad you didn't." Eddie was suddenly on top of him, forcing his legs open with his narrow hips. "I never would have had the chance to be with you, then." Waylon's arms jerked and he winced when the rope bit into his flesh; it didn't allow him to reach Eddie, to push him off, do something to at least slow him down, if not stop him. Just give up; his mind was nagging him. There's no way out. No one is coming to help you. His brain was shutting him out of his body; he could see himself from the ceiling, pinned to the wooden boards, tied up and helpless at the hands of his, by now, murderer. Eddie sank his teeth into his neck and his body jerked, flush against the other man's taut one. He lowered himself on him, pressing him down with his entire weight. His lungs seemed to have tightened and gone stiff, refusing to take in any more air. His system was refusing to fight anymore, sensing the imminent demise.

It took him a while to feel something hot and thick drip to the back of his neck, reactions delayed by the state of pure panic and despair; Eddie's bite broke the skin and now he was lapping at the laceration, soothing the sting with his warm tongue. Waylon's flesh shuddered, a cold shiver stabbing through his spinal bone marrow. He swallowed thickly when Eddie looked at his face, drinking in the pitiful expression. He was clearly enjoying himself, lips curled into a satisfied smirk and eyes gleaming into the faint light.

Waylon didn't assume Eddie ever thought he would see him again; hell, he didn't think the other man would even recognize him, let alone have such an ardent desire to get his hands on him. But he, unfortunately, was a special little snowflake to Gluskin. He was the one that turned on the Engine. He could have stopped it. Not without consequences, obviously, but he could have stopped it. The scars on Eddie's face were his own doing. He turned his head to the side, disgusted with himself.

"I wish there was something I could have done." He surprised himself with how clear his voice sounded, despite the mess inside. "None of you deserved it."

Eddie laughed, an angry, bitter sound, different from the honey coated tone that he's used before. "The only thing you can do for me right now is behave." He was off Waylon and the software engineer suddenly felt cold. It seemed to Waylon that, despite apparently completely fixated on his bridal fantasies, Eddie's mind sometimes broke through the veil. Caught a glimpse of what's around him, and, saddened, perhaps frightened, went back seeking refuge. Some kind of protection mechanism.

He heard fabric ripping. For a brief moment, he failed to realise where the sound came from. He watched Eddie throw his ruined underwear across the room.

"Please, please, please.." he muttered under his breath; Eddie shushed him gently. "You said you wanted to do something for me, I named my price. Now keep your promise." He gripped the plastic handle of what, now that he's seen it up close, appeared to be a kitchen knife, most likely snatched from the cantina. A long, slicing blade. He found it harder and harder to keep quiet, and curse himself for feeling like he owed him that much. Eddie's fingers probed the soft texture of his thighs.

"No, please.."

Without a warning, Eddie's hand was around his manhood, lifting it up on his stomach. Waylon's left arm was completely numb and unable to move, and his right hurt bone deep from struggling without any result against the restraints. The tip of the blade tickled his testicles, like the needle of a wasp on his skin. He froze, awaiting the dreaded moment.

It came after what felt like an eternity and send a horrible surge of pain through his lower pits; the sharp knife sunk just beneath his balls, slicing through tissue and freeing the stream of crimson liquid. He kicked out his leg, missing Eddie by a mile and only managing to embed the metal deeper inside himself. Unbearable, the agony made him tear his vocal cords in half, screaming until everything was sore and pulsed painfully; he couldn't hear what Eddie was telling him anymore. His voice sounded like a radio with bad reception, fuzzy and distorted, words indecipherable.

Eddie gripped the knife and yanked it west, carving further; he was bleeding heavily, torrents gushing out of him and pooling at Eddie's feet, staining his shoes. The lightheadedness was taking over Waylon quickly as minutes flew by, replacing the agony with a pleasant numbness. Lovely numbness. Lisa was waving at him from the window of her car as she dropped him off to work that cursed day. He could see it on her face now, she was worried. She had always been worried but he chose to dismiss it. Too late for regrets now. Too late for anything now. He had his chances, and he missed them without even realising.

His ears were ringing; Eddie was bent over his unmoving, barely breathing form, urging him to not give up on him. Waylon laughed humorlessly inside his head as Eddie's face blurred around the edges. At least Eddie has lost too.

None of them win; blood was leaving his body, draining the color from his cheeks. Lisa looked at him with sad eyes over Eddie's shoulder; so many things he wanted to say to her, but time was running out of patience with him.

"We could have been beautiful." The words struck him violently; could have beens haunted his conscience. What if I did that? What if I had never done that? Constants and variables. It all led him to this point of no return, strapped to a table and carved out by a madman who thought he was in love. No strength left to cry when Lisa's face disappeared forever.

He closed his eyes tightly as he surrendered himself to the numbness.

* * *

***hides***  
**This chapter was brought to you while sleep deprived and high on nicotine. Boosts the craziness :) also, for my neighbor that slams doors at three in the morning, I don't know who you are, but I'll find you. :))**  
**I am no doctor, but I highly doubt Waylon, or anyone for that matter, would've survived that makeshift surgery, and I like to be realistic. I'm a bit paranoid that I might have disappointed some of you with this ending.. I do suck at endings :D thanks for sticking with me :) **


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